Lejano
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: He smears his blood on the kitchen door. Romano waits inside, but Spain is far away. He still sees it in his mind's eye, the defeat of his mighty Armada.


**A/N: There is some Spanish in here, so I apologize to those who cannot read it ^^". I just thought it would be more authentic for Spain to speak his native tongue while talking to his people. Props to those who know what he is saying. If you want to PM me, I'll tell you what his dialogue says :).**

**P.S: I know that the defeat of the Armada wasn't as big of a blow to Spain as some may think, and I know that Spain remained a mighty Empire for many years, I just wanted to capture the immediate feelings of Spain (the character) and expand on how he probably felt after watching so many of his people die.**

**So enjoy and please review! **

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He smears his blood on the kitchen door.

Spain is home, Spain is far away.

His mind is still out on the open ocean, evaluating the plans, counting the number of ships. But so many of them are already gone. There is nothing left to count.

He pushes against the heavy door. It's strong and sturdy. Spanish wood. No, that isn't right; nothing Spanish is strong…not after today.

There it is, he sees it. Burning wood sinking into the Channel. Black pitch and white sails, red and yellow strips that mean nothing now. Absolutely nothing.

It's so heavy. He has to press his entire body against it. Green eyes blink rapidly. Is he trying to hold back tears or make them fall?

Green eyes blink rapidly and he's out to sea. Silver crosses fall into the water's open mouth. Snowflakes on a wolf's panting tongue. The ocean wants to devour him. Saltwater slaps his face. At the stern of the ship, he can see everything. Every floating speck of debris. Men cling to driftwood. Pieces of men cling to nothing. Horses leap over the edge, into the icy depths.

Green eyes blink rapidly; he's at the kitchen door. Why is this so difficult? He grits his teeth as the door scrapes the hardwood. Just a little harder…

A spray of salt and blood against his cheek. Cannon fire. Raw and red, just like him.

Flashes of fiery light on the black waters.

They might be fireworks. Beautiful bursts of light that blossom in the night sky.

But they're not. He looks down at the gun in his hands. Gun powder dusts his palms. The same thing used for those beautiful midnight flowers.

"Damn irony…" He grits his teeth and grabs the gun; it's made out of Spanish wood.

Just like the door.

Cracked fingernails dig into the splintered wood. Blood drips down his sunburned wrist. White bone of the forefinger like ivory, bruises like Valencia roses on his skin.

Green eyes blink rapidly; he's sliding across the deck. Rain, salt, blood and death. It catches his feet and makes him trip.

"Señor cuidadoso!" A sailor catches him.

But he can't even see the man's face.

Lightning scars the clouds, scars the sailor's sunburned skin. Emerald eyes pierce the darkness.

Hands grip Spain's collar. Its limp material, rich cotton, melts like a wax candle. What is the point? All of this wealth…it means nothing. Spanish galleons, taken by England, Spanish gold, taken by England, Spanish lives, taken by England.

He embraces the sailor, tears streaming down his face. "Sé fuerte, mi amigo. Este Infierno pasará. Mira a los cielos."

The tears vanish in the rain.

A country and his countryman, they stand in the middle of the ship as the Armada dies around them. Spain knows that he cannot die, but this man…this innocent sailor can.

He holds the sailor's head against his chest. With his back to the battle, he lets the tears fall. A silver cross slides across the broken deck.

The ship is tilting.

His body is tilting in real time. The door catches him as he falls. The Spanish wood is slick with blood, warm and red. The lifeblood of his people.

It won't open…the door just won't open. He sinks to the floor, limbs heavy, mind reeling. Drops of scarlet, Valencia petals.

Paper thin, his heart is ripped open.

The door…the damn door. It has beaten him, just like the waves of the Channel.

And no one crosses the Channel.

No one.

A faint gasp as he tries not to cry.

"Dios mio…"

Green eyes blink rapidly and he is in Hell.

The ship is gone. Splintered panels and ripped sails. The sailor is dead in his arms. He lies on a piece of driftwood. He cannot die, he cannot die.

Standing with the sailor, he had taken the shot, felt the cannonball against his back. Blinding pain, empty words…silence.

But the sailor had not been saved.

Spain gripped the man's body, screaming.

"Oh, Dios, sálvanos! Dios sálvanos!"

Words did not stop the cannon fire.

And now he floats in a sea of men and blood. The sailor is torn apart.

Valencia roses, forever falling.

He sleeps on a bed of a million petals.

Three ships, two ships, one ship rocking on the waves.

His lips, raw and bloody, quiver in the darkness. "Tres, dos, uno…"

A barrage of cannon fire. Flames leaping like baskian vipers.

Spain feels his mouth open, his vocal chords trembling in his throat. He hears nothing. His ears are bleeding…bleeding.

He coughs up blood. His fingers intertwine in his hair. White bone of the forefinger grabs at his roots and claws into his scalp. The noise scrambles his thoughts, throwing every memory together.

He sees the sailor and his emerald eyes, the fire and blood on the water, white sails turned red, the men and horses flailing in the waves, everyone and their own eyes full of ultimate sorrow.

This compilation of thoughts and people and music, endless music of rain and explosions.

Screams, crying, blood-soaked howls of pain.

Their farewell song at the highest speed.

"Ojos verdes…"

So many green eyes floating in the water, blank and dead.

Sitting on the floor, head resting against the door, his eyes are blank, too.

But never dead.

He hears a voice. "Hey, Boss?"

But he is still far away.

In Hell, he is screaming. He screams and screams, his voice breaking and growing hoarse.

This nightmare blossoms in front of eyes like a Valencia rose.

Dreamt to bloom beautifully.

And beautifully surely.

Please don't bloom, just wither, fall, and rot. But it blooms anyways, and he sees the destruction with his own green eyes.

He realizes that as we live, so we must die.

His body is not strong enough, but he will not die. What kind of an empire is he? He was fighting to truth, for justice.

But was he really fighting for? A petty argument between Catholics and Protestants? But his King had made it sound like so much more.

Take down the bastard Elizabeth, he had said, make room for God's chosen empire.

"Me he avergonzado a mi dios y mi rey."

Yes, he has shamed them all.

His mind reels: Please criticize me, threaten me, kill me so I can escape this pain. I want to die, I want to die. Why do you look at me like that…Romano?

The little boy comes to mind.

"Boss, that you?"

Brown hair, the same green eyes. The smell of ripe tomatoes hanging in the air.

Spain falls on his face, grasping his head with his hands. He tastes blood as his teeth break through his lips. The pain is dull and numbing, nothing compared to the bleeding ears and bulging eyes of the floating men around him. So much pressure behind his pupils, as if they will suddenly detonate like the cannonballs and leave his eyes as mere holes of gushing blood. He falls onto his side, trying to block out the terrible sound of silence.

And the last ship falls into the icy water.

"Spain?"

Someone is holding the door open. How?

Green eyes blink rapidly and the little boy is in front of him. Romano holds the heavy door open with one hand, the other holding a push broom.

"Boss, what happened? I've, uh, been waiting. I even tried to do some cleaning, but I knocked the bookshelf over. Whatever. Uh, hey, Boss, you're bleeding…what—"

"Romano!" Spain pulls the child forward and hugs him.

The poor, naïve country. So innocent, unaware of what these wounds really mean.

"I lost, mi hijo, I lost…"

"Boss…" Romano has nothing to say. For a moment, he is limp in Spain's embrace.

But then he wraps his tiny arms around the ancient country's neck and softly kisses his cheek, his face turning red.

"Boss, I, uh, still think you're strong."

"I wish you were right." Spain's voice is barely a whisper.

He would love nothing more than to tell Romano about the battle, to scream and sob as the little boy hugged him and told him he was a strong empire…but that will never happen.

Romano is a child, his child. The horrors of war will come someday, just not now.

Romano is precious, like a Valencia rose.

Spain will catch the petals as they fall, preserving them for as long as he can.

So now he will tell Romano that everything is all right and go inside the kitchen. Romano has probably prepared a nice meal, a meal including tomatoes, no doubt.

"Vamos, Romano." He let's go of the little boy and quickly wipes away his tears. "Show me what wonderful meal you've made."

"M-made? I've made nothing!"

Spain laughs. "I can smell it, hijo. I bet it's delicious."

Romano adjusts his apron, his face beat red. "Fine…bastardo." He stomps inside the kitchen, the push broom dragging behind him.

Spain smiles. His body is bruised and bloody, his Armada is defeated, his pride is…destroyed. But for now, he will try to be happy.

He will have to wipe the blood off the kitchen door.

Spain is home, but Spain will forever be far away.


End file.
